But Some Things Stay Immutable
by NiennaTru
Summary: Alex-centric. Missing moment fic from episode 7x03, "Superfreak." An exploration of Alex's thoughts during his ride on the elevator.


Title: "But Some Things Stay Immutable"

Author: NiennaTru

Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy and its characters belong to ABC, Shonda Rhimes, etc. I make no money from this.

Summary: Alex-centric fic. Missing moment from episode 7x03, "Superfreak."

Spoilers: Season six finale and episode 7x03, "Superfreak."

Author's Note: I am extremely grateful to both _waltzmatildah_ and _javiera _for their help and encouragement. I could not have written this without them.

The title of this fic is taken from the song, "London Skies," by Minnie Driver.

* * *

"Breathe, Karev. Just breathe and try to relax."

You nod at the Chief, but the oxygen in the elevator seems to have evaporated since you stepped in and the walls seem much, much too close.

You take an unsteady breath and try to block out images of blood and shattered glass and her broken body on the floor, and _him _towering over her. You try to block out the familiar feeling of rising panic.

As the elevator begins to move between floors, you feel your stomach lurch. Your legs feel heavy and burn as adrenalin floods your system. Your hands are shaking, and you're pretty sure the Chief can see, but you're sure as hell not going to look at the man to know for sure. You stuff them in the pockets of your lab coat instead and think your humiliation would only be complete if you actually pissed your pants.

The doors of the elevator open and several nurses get in. The walls are already too close and the air too tight, but they don't seem to notice. They're talking and laughing about _something, _but you can't focus on their words long enough to determine what. You can't believe they don't notice the lack of air.

When the doors open again, the nurses get off and walk away, their laughter and grating chatter abruptly cut off as the doors of the elevator close behind them. The metallic _thud_ of the closing doors is almost your undoing. You feel hysteria and panic bubbling up in your throat, and the urge to start screaming is almost overwhelming.

You're hot, and there's no air, and your head feels oddly light...

Hands are on your shoulders, and the shock of physical contact forces you to meet the Chief's gaze.

"You're okay, Karev. You're safe. You can do this. It's going to be okay."

You're annoyed that the Chief of Surgery is talking to you like a child. You're annoyed that he thinks he knows what's best for you. You feel like telling the Chief to mind his own freaking business and leave you alone. And that he should keep his hands to himself while he's at it.

But you don't, because this is all-too familiar territory.

The endless string of human services counselors and foster care social workers you had to deal with as a kid quickly taught you better than to say anything. Because it didn't matter what you said anyway—they only heard what they wanted to hear and believed what they wanted to believe.

And no one ever wanted to believe the kid who told them where they could stick their empty words and worthless advice—and then smiled in their appalled and disgusted faces.

Besides, stuck was stuck and resisting their offers of help—which were anything but—never worked. It was always better to do what you had to do in order to avoid questions—questions that always led to them wanting to talk about things that didn't need to be talked about.

Words never changed anything and nobody in your family ever got better by _talking._ Reality always remained the same, no matter what was said. Your father was still an abusive, drug-addicted drunk and your mom was still crazy and there was still no food in the house and Aaron kept growing out of his clothes and Amber needed you to rock her to sleep at night, because there was no one else.

It was what it was.

You used to hide in your bedroom closet when you were little while your father raged and your mom screamed and glass shattered. You'd hide and pretend you were somewhere and _someone_ else. But you learned—all too soon—that hiding didn't help, didn't change reality, because closed doors couldn't protect you from your life.

And you always had to leave the closet eventually anyway, because there was glass to clean up before Aaron cut himself on it. Because your father was busy drinking himself into another rage down at the bar. Because your mom was sitting, catatonic, on the living room floor again.

You dragged yourself into an elevator to get away, but there was still glass to clean up as it shattered all over the hospital. And you woke up alone and terrified, because you finally realized that the violence and the crazy would follow you no matter how hard you tried to get away. Only now it was a rampaging gunman instead of your father and blood pouring from Reed's broken body instead of your mom's and an elevator instead of your closet and the hospital administration instead of social workers and their useless offers of help.

You feel like telling the Chief all these things, but you don't. Because words _still _don't change anything. And no amount of riding the elevator up and down this freaking hospital will either.

But you stand beside the Chief and do it anyway. And eventually, your heartbeat slows and your hands stop shaking. And as you ride the elevator, over and over again, you remind yourself that this is just one more thing you have to do, because stuck is stuck.

When you finally get off the elevator, you even manage to thank the Chief, because you know better than to do otherwise.

You walk away.

And wait for the inevitable to find you once again.

Because some things don't ever change.


End file.
